Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

“Is there anything more ephemeral than political certainty?” Moriarty tapped the leather binding of his ledger. “You have come to settle your account?”

Leofric withdrew one his infernal cigarettes and lit it. He crossed his legs and relaxed against the chair. “Not at all, Herr Professor. I think I do not owe you so much as a farthing.”

“Indeed? And by what route did you reach this conclusion?”

“You were engaged to despatch the late kaiser to his eternal reward, but he died of natural causes. It is in all of the newspapers.”

Moriarty tapped his fingertips together. “Ah, then I must have misunderstood Your Grace. I did not realise that His Imperial Majesty’s death was to be a sensational and obvious murder.”

A little of the duke’s élan dissolved in the wash of the professor’s chill demeanour. “Is this how your reputation was gained, Professor? By the taking of credit for the inevitable?”

“I admit to usually working through intermediaries, but I will only claim the dues that are rightfully mine.” He tapped the ledger again, a little harder. “I would advise Your Grace to settle this particular debt, and with alacrity. At our first meeting you said that you knew me; if that claim was – as I trust – not simply the boast of a spoiled prince then you also know I will not be gainsaid. It is a dangerous practice.”

“No.” Leofric extinguished his cigarette and stood, taking up his hat. “I shall not pay, mein herr , for I do not believe you have satisfactorily completed the contract. You will not pursue the debt; in this the courts are closed to you. So I will bid you auf wiedersehen .” He opened the study door, not waiting for the vigilant Hawes.

Moriarty stood slowly, straightening his coat. He crossed to the open study door, signalling the astonished porter standing beyond with the briefest shake of his head, and closed it. Retracing his steps, he opened the study window and left it ajar by six inches before sitting himself behind his desk once more. He slid the ledger towards him, opening it at the page listing the calculations for the duke’s contract. Beyond the window, he heard a woman’s abrupt screech, the horrified cries of men and the screams of an injured horse. Ten seconds later, Hawes opened the study door and peered through.

“I’m afraid there’s been a bit of an accident, sir. It appears that German gentleman stepped out in front of a speeding cab …”

Moriarty opened his notebook to the line of figures he had jotted down whilst returning across the Channel. He swiftly compared them with the ledger’s numbers, nodding to himself as he mentally reconciled both columns. Taking up a fresh pen, the professor dipped it in ink and carefully inscribed three red words across the ledger page: PAID IN FULL.

Sunday, 8 August 1937

While the spires of Oxford may not have been dreaming, they did seem to slumber lazily as they basked in the sunshine. Edwin Fitzackerly, sticky and rather hot about the face as he pedalled his bicycle toward the university, was firmly wishing he hadn’t habitually followed his mother’s parting advice to always wear a vest, but it was too late to worry about that now. He was already perilously close to missing his appointment and undergraduates did not keep senior lecturers waiting – at least, not if they hoped one day to become faculty members themselves. Steering his bicycle one-handed, Edwin glanced at his watch. He grimaced and muttered, “I’m late!”, feeling more than a little like the White Rabbit in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland . Then he couldn’t help but smile, as it struck him this was remarkably apt considering he was currently on his way to examine some effects of the late Charles Dodgson, better known as Lewis Carroll, author of the “Alice” books.

It tended to annoy Edwin that among the general public Lewis Carroll was often regarded as merely a writer of whimsical nonsense for children. At least in the cloisters of Oxford University, Charles Dodgson – who had died in 1898, almost forty years previously – was still respected and admired for his consummate skills as both a mathematician and a logician. As a child in his nursery, Edwin had been very fond of Alice’s adventures but as a young man he also had developed a love for Dodgson’s works on logic. Edwin considered himself very lucky to have been asked to write a biographical article about a man he regarded as something of a hero, even if it was only for his college’s student newspaper. It was perhaps even more fortunate that one of the more doddering of the elderly Masters at the college had by chance remarked that he possessed a jumble of Dodgson’s old effects and papers, stored for posterity but for many years forgotten, mouldering away in his attic. Apparently these papers included some private correspondence with another professor of mathematics, but Edwin’s informant could remember no further details.

To his great delight, Edwin had been given permission to come and sort through these relics of Dodgson to decide for himself if any might be helpful in writing his article. While he knew that in all likelihood he would find nothing more exciting than a ledger of household accounts, secretly he hoped he might stumble across some unpublished mathematical theorem, or perhaps even the manuscript of a third Alice adventure!

Arriving at his destination several minutes later than the firmly stipulated two o’clock (and amidst a steady stream of perspiration), Edwin was unsure whether to be worried or relieved that his octogenarian benefactor had not bothered to wait for his arrival. Placed under the brass knocker of the front door was a sheet of paper bearing the words “Punctuality is the politeness of kings. Louis XVIII”, beneath which was written “I see no reason why your lateness should be the cause of my own. You are welcome to use my house to conduct your researches in my absence. It being the Sabbath, my servants have been granted a day of rest thus you must be prepared to fend for yourself. The chest is in the drawing room. Let yourself in and try not to make too much mess.” The note was signed with an entirely indecipherable flourish that seemed to have more in common with a hieroglyph than a signature.

A short while later, Edwin was seated at a table, steadily unpacking the contents of a battered leather trunk that had been recovered from the bottom of a large tea chest. He had begun by carefully removing one item at a time and attempting to devise some system for cataloguing his finds, but he quickly gave up on this idea. He realised he first had to work out what it was he was trying to examine. There were a few books, which he stacked neatly at one end of the table. There were also many sepia-tinted photographs, most probably taken by Dodgson himself, which Edwin placed carefully in a pile of their own. There were batches of handwritten notes, which Edwin was sure would warrant closer attention but which for now he began to assemble into a heap in front of him. And then there were letters, private correspondence, mostly between Dodgson and someone who might have been a colleague of his – judging by a quick glance, it was indeed some professor of mathematics – but whether one who had taught at Oxford or elsewhere Edwin could not judge. The letters bore no address and for the most part were signed simply “M.”

Finally, there was a most singular item. At the bottom of the case, Edwin found a heavy, clear glass bottle. Curious, thought Edwin, for while the bottle held no liquid, on careful inspection it had been most thoroughly stoppered, and sealed both with lead foil and wax. More and more curious, thought Edwin, who had had the bitter lessons of accepted grammar beaten into him while at prep school. Looking through the glass, inside the bottle, Edwin could very easily see a sealed paper envelope, inscribed with the simple instruction “Read Me”.